Storms of Every Nature
by LondonBelow
Summary: In the chaos of the loft, hate is easy. More difficult is making friends. Maureen's not eating, Roger's in withdrawal, and Mark blames him for everything. preRENT
1. Maureen

Disclaimer: It's not mine

Warnings: addiction, eating disorders, bodily functions, swearing, drugs, sex

I grew up in the Midwest so… cows, fried chicken, people bigger than mountains I swear, you want to know why I sometimes can't eat for days you should've seen my cousin Mary Lou. She may as well've just fried up the entire chicken, I mean the _whole. damn. thing_, skin on and bones in. Everyone used to call me skinny. They said it like a bad thing, like skinny was some kind of sickness and they had to fatten me up before they caught it, too.

And everyone in New York who saw the truth thought exactly the same, not that skinny is sick but that too skinny is sick. The boys rallied together to help me, what they saw as helping me.

Roger understood the best of any of them _why_. Roger's been "every kind of sick a person can make himself," according to Collins, so it was Roger sitting with me in the mornings. "Here, Mo." He would sit beside me on the couch, plate in hand. I made you breakfast. He never said it, never drew attention to his involvement. Just talked me through the meal, babbling about insignificant things until breakfast was gone.

After that, Collins and Benny played their parts. They distracted me for at least half an hour. We would hang out, mostly talking again about unimportant shit or Collins would bring out the weed and we would smoke some. When I was high I would stuff myself, like eat two entire sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly, plus milk. That was when we had cash, so we had food.

As for April, April-baby played her part, too. Her part was never to know. As soon as I caught on to what they were doing, I told them that.

"I don't want April to know about this," I told them.

"That's fine, Mo, it's your business," Collins said.

It was Roger who voiced what we were all thinking: "We don't want her to get the idea that this is right."

Mark kicked him, but Roger had a point. April-baby always looked up to me.

Mark's part? Why, Markie boy just took care of me. Mark made certain I knew that he cared about me. We would cuddle in bed at night and whisper sweet nothings meant for no ears but ours, feeling secret and safe and naughty and good. He would blush and smile an almost laugh and shush me if I giggled too loudly.

"Shh, shh, we don't wanna wake Benny," he would whisper, mocking the lightest sleeper.

"Sorry, Markie," I would reply, stifling giggles with the back of my hand.

Growing up in the Midwest, it's not like that. Everyone is loud and in your face. Privacy? Don't you wish. I used to puke off the highway overpass because it felt more alone there.

Sometimes I just needed to be sick.

I remember we had gone out once, the five of us, clubbing maybe or to some tapas place, where Collins, who spent a year in Southern California once teaching at the University of California at Los Angeles, would explain exactly what we were eating, which always considerably narrowed the field for me and Mark.

They couldn't monitor me in the bathroom to make sure I didn't puke, though I like to think that Collins at least had more respect for my privacy and, hell, for my dignity.

I remember, this one time, we were out and I had gotten tired, a little too much wine maybe, and I dropped out of the conversation. My stomach began to churn. Bile burned my throat and my temperature rose and I knew that I was going to make myself throw up.

Roger saw it, too. "Maureen, you… you don't look so good," he said. Everyone expressed concern. I had been doing so well lately, and Roger salvaged that. He said, "You've been drinking too much. Come on, let's get you back to the loft."

He took me, just Roger. The others stayed. We insisted. It would be fine. We stumbled home with arms around waists like drunk lovers, laughing too loudly in a night too quiet, the air warm and heavy and rank with the smells emitted by the cars that gave us cricket-song.

He was using by then, but I didn't know. Roger led me into the loft and I guess about that point he realized that there was a toilet here, too. "Come lay down," he said.

Roger's room was not exactly clean, but he kept his paraphernalia in a shoebox well away from the bed where he helped me lay down. "There we go," he said. He had had his share of wine, too. I smelled it on him. He laid down next to me and brushed my hair with his fingers. I liked his touch. "Why d'you do it, Mo?" he asked me quietly.

"Why do you do this?" I asked, running my fingertips along his forearm. It was not sensual.

"You're too good to starve yourself."

"I don't wanna be good, I wanna be beautiful."

He kissed my forehead. "You couldn't _not_ be beautiful if you tried."

"Roger Davis, are you challenging me?"

He was frank and kind, and he talked me into a comfortable sleep.

The next thing I knew, Roger was sprawled on the ground and Mark was standing over him, shouting and kicking him. "Get up! I'll fucking kill you, get up!"

"Hey-- Mark--" Benny stood in the doorway, watching this. He tried to stop it, but he stayed away. I was too tired and drunk to know what was going on.

Mark pulled Roger to his feet. Roger was bleeding already, lightly, from the nose. "Why?" Mark demanded. And then he shouted it: "Why!" He pushed Roger against the wall.

"Mark, stop," Roger panted. "Nothing happened--"

"Fuck you!" Mark punched his face. I screamed. "Fuck you! You can have anyone you want, why would you do that? You're a real shitty friend, you know that?" he shouted. He hit him again, in the stomach this time. Roger cringed and whimpered, but he didn't fight back.

"Mark, please," Roger begged. "Listen to me. Maureen and I--"

So that was what he thought. "Mark, I would never--"

Three things happened within a split second of one another: first, Collins and April wandered in, talking but I bet even they don't know what about. Collins always liked April. Second, Mark kneed Roger in the groin. And third, I screamed.

"Mark, what the hell?" Collins pulled him away from Roger.

"He fucked Maureen!" Mark shouted.

"No he didn't!" I shouted back.

Everyone was shouting. Collins was angry with Mark. Mark was angry with me and with Roger. April, the same. Benny was urging everyone to calm down and I was shouting at Mark that he had no right to say that, that I would never cheat on him (I did, later), and that Roger would never do that to him.

Roger alone remained calm, shaking his head. He had crumpled to his knees. His mouth was open and bleeding, and all he could do was shake his head. His face was white as a sheet.

I ended up in Mark's bed that night, assuring him that I would never cheat on him. April disappeared. I later learned that she took her first shot that night, Roger's drugs, up on the roof. Benny had disappeared, too, downstairs though we didn't know that yet. Collins took care of Roger.

"You okay, man?"

"No."

"Here, this'll keep the swelling down."

"Do you believe it?"

"Yes, I do. You put the thing on your jaw and you can eat tomorrow. You don't, it swells up like a tennis ball."

"I mean about me and Maureen. And you know it."

A pause, then, "Roger…"

"Thomas, please."

"Well, did you?"

"No! I would never do that."

"Then I believe you."

We have break-ups in the Midwest, too. They're simple. You just kick him out of your trailer.

To be continued!

...please review?


	2. Mark

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's

I forgave Maureen that night.

"It's okay, Maureen. It was just… you were drunk, and Roger… is Roger, it's all right. Just promise me this will never happen again."

In my memory, I sometimes hear a note of hatred to her voice, but that night all I heard was sweetness and love. "Never again, Pookie," she promised, cuddling close against me. I smelled her hair and her hands were warm on my back, and I knew beyond any doubt that I forgave her.

When I awoke the following morning, Maureen was curled against me with her eyes squeezed tightly closed. She had been drunk last night and was hung over this morning. I had been spared that particular torture.

I wandered out of the bedroom. Roger was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and a book, following the words with his fingertip. He was wearing the beating I had given him the night before. His lip was swollen and there were bruises across his cheek. He had a black eye.

I have never considered myself a bad person. Sometimes I do bad things, I recognize that, but I always make amends, or at least try. But when I saw Roger's face that morning, I felt a sudden swell of pride. I felt what I dog feels, sniffing his own scent off a fire hydrant.

"Morning," Roger said.

I forced myself to answer calmly, though I wanted to snap: "Morning." I had forgiven Maureen, but I knew in that moment that I would never forgive Roger.

But I never predicted what would happen next. I would not have guessed, nor believed if told, that we would find April in the bathtub, that Roger would be given a death sentence. He took the news poorly.

Roger would disappear for days on end. When he was home, he was terrifying. He did not break things but he seemed to enjoy being rough with them: shutting the door too forcefully, setting down his mug too heavily. He lost weight and he was always high.

Collins tried to convince Roger to come eat with us, since we usually ate dinner (spare as it was) as a group--five people, one kitchen, you do the math. Sometimes Roger came. I never understood why. I, for one, did not want him. He made me extremely uncomfortable.

"I wish he would just stop coming home," I admitted to Maureen one night. "I know that's awful, but…" But I hate him. But she loved him, so I could not say it.

"I think this is good for you, Pookie."

"Good for me?"

"Yeah. You can't let fear get the better of you all the time, not if you want to film real life at its most interesting."

Her words would haunt me for years-- one more thing for which I blamed Roger.

To be continued!

Concerning whether or not Mark is out of character: I don't really think everyone in RENT was who they are as we see them, since popping out of the womb. Mark and Roger are so often portrayed as friends from the very start. I wanted to try something different.

Anyway, that's just my reasoning. I still hope you enjoy it.


	3. Collins

**Warnings:**_ swearing, use of derogatory terms for homosexuals_

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing.

Roger decided to give up drugs after a spectacular rant in which the misplaced rage he usually attempted to siphon off on possessions was directed towards me.

He was not particularly creative. He called me a "fucking queer" so many times, even he sensed that the repetition was too much. Roger's a good person, though, and even as angry, hurt and drug-crazed as he was, goodness won out. Roger called me queer-- quite a few times, in fact-- but never the more offensive "fag". He got creative with the word fuck-- fuckwad, fucking fuckbag, things like that.

He also either temporarily went colorblind or consciously steered clear of the racial slurs.

"You fucking took it! You're the only one who would be that fucking inconsiderate! Where is it?"

After a while he left the loft. That was when Mark told me, "I'm… I'm sorry."

"What for?" As if I didn't know.

"I took it. Roger's stash."

_You? Scrawny little not-enough-mettle-to-fill-a-thimble boy from the suburbs?_ "Why?" I asked.

"Because…" Mark sighed. "We shouldn't have to live like this." He was quiet so long I returned to my book. "You know, there's… there's no reason we can't evict Roger," Mark said. I looked at him, unable to believe that he would even suggest that. The look obviously said enough, because Mark backed down. "Why, though?" he asked me.

"Because--" and this is the defining point of my relationship with Roger, with anyone, the defining purpose of my life "--you don't just give up on someone, Mark." Charles Darwin was certainly a pioneer of the life sciences, nothing short of a genius, but his theories could not be applied to politics. Nature simply is. People feel. People know better.

"He's a junkie--"

"He's in pain. You would be, too. You think Roger is any different from Maureen?" I asked, perhaps more sharply than I had intended to. Mark sought an answer, but there was none to be found.

I decided then that Roger had moped long enough. When he returned, he headed straight for his bedroom. I followed.

Roger was on the floor. He had a needle on the floor beside a lit candle and an old spoon, and of course a small pile of glassine bags, three of them. He didn't see me enter. He was preoccupied, busy tightening a belt around his forearm.

"Roger." I settled myself opposite him. "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

He mumbled, "I'm sorry about earlier."

"Do you like yourself when you're like that, Roger?"

He shook his head.

"Naw. I don't like that part of you, either."

"It hurts," he muttered. "I just wanted a hit, that's all."

"And getting the drug mattered more to you than my feelings."

For the first time since returning to the loft, Roger looked at me. It was a brief glance, nothing more, but it was enough to tell me that Roger was ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"You say that, but you're still doin' this."

"The smack--"

"Makes you a person you're not. It makes you a person you don't like. And I think you need to take a moment to ask yourself, Roger, if you want to be that person or not. You can be happy again, but you have to want it."

I left him alone. I wanted Roger to choose the better path, but I knew better than to bully him into it. I went back out and sat down on the couch. My book was lying there waiting for me. Ever since I was a child, I've been able to disappear into books. Whatever bad thing was going on around me, written word could carry me away from it.

Roger dropped himself onto the couch. He stared until I lowered the book. "I can't do it alone," he said.

"I know, man."

"So?"

"So what?"

He laughed. It was the strangest timing, but he laughed. "So will you help me?"

I covered his hand with mine. "You know I will, Roger."

To be continued!

Review? Please?


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playin'.

Collins told all of us, "Roger's about to go through hell. You might not want to stick around."

No one left.

Benny nodded mutely.

Maureen smiled and said he had done so much for her, she was glad to do the same for him.

Me? I was curious. I had never seen anyone go through withdrawal before. Besides that, how could I leave Maureen alone with him? And, more than anything, there was the knowledge that if I left, I was leaving for good. If I ran out and protected my own hide, sure, I could come back, but the group would be closely knit and I always on the fringes.

Of all of these, I gave the simple reason that, "I don't have anywhere to go." That was true, too.

I planned to remain uninvolved in Roger's withdrawal. Unless he jeopardized Maureen's safety, I would watch and learn and stay safe and distant.

I awoke that night to the sounds of someone being copiously sick. The bed was empty. _Maureen._ With the drama of April and Roger, I had all but forgotten about Maureen's little problem. I pushed back the covers and wandered out towards the bathroom, situating my glasses over my nose as I went.

"Shh." The first voice I heard was Maureen's. "That's it, baby. Just get it out. Get it out." She sat on the floor, cross-legged, a vision in pink-and-white pajamas pants and an all-but-transparent undershirt. Her nipples were visible and the pinkish brown of dried adobe clay, and altogether too close to Roger's face.

I shook my head. What was I thinking? Of course her nipples were close to his face. She was steadying his head with one hand, keeping it positioned over the toilet, and rubbing his back with the other.

"Do what you need to. It's okay. It's okay, baby, you're doing good."

Jealousy flared again, warm and thick in my chest. _What?_ Of course I was not jealous of this pitiable creature. He convulsed like a cat coughing up a hairball. She held his head as he moaned and retched into the toilet, coughing up vomit and sobs.

"Just get it all up," Maureen encouraged.

Roger's hair had soaked with sweat and bound itself into tangles like dreadlocks. He sobbed as tears streaked into his face, mingling with the sweat. "Mo… th-tha--" He was sick again.

Maureen rubbed his back. "Shh, honey. You don't have to say anything. I'm here for you, I'm here…"

I was involved in Roger's withdrawal, I knew then and there. I was involved, because I was jealous.

No one asked me to care for him. Maureen and Collins took turns sitting up with Roger. Even Benny got his hands dirty, though the issue of Roger's trust certainly limited his involvement.

He wasn't sleeping much, only occasionally and he usually awoke screaming from the pain. About two or three days into it, I saw Maureen cleaning Roger as he trembled and cried. He had vomited on himself, unable to reach the bathroom, and now she had taken his shirt off, positioned his head over a bowl and begun wiping the puke off of him.

All the while, as Roger wept from pain and humiliation, Maureen spoke softly to him, promising that it would be all right, he could do this, she was really proud. He was being so strong, she knew he could do it…

And when she spoke to me, it was to scold me. "Don't judge him, Mark," she said severely. "Don't you dare judge him."

The reason I looked after Roger was that Collins had a job interview. "I can cancel," he said. "Maureen, if--"

She shook her head. "You've only had these plans for _two months_, Collins. They're coming out here. Go. I can handle Roger." At that point it was fits of napping and pain, sometimes vomiting. Roger had had a couple of spells of diarrhea but he let no one help him through that, just locked the bathroom door.

Maureen had dark smudges under her eyes. "Why don't you lie down?" I asked. "He'll probably sleep for a while. If he wakes up, I can talk to him."

She bit her lip. "If something happens that you can't handle-- if Roger is sick, or if he wants me, promise you'll wake me."

"I promise," I lied.

Roger was cold. He bucked tiny shivers in his sleep and hugged himself. He murmured unintelligible things and knitted his brow. I watched him for a while, then curled up on the couch with a cup of tea.

I didn't even notice Roger until he was sitting opposite me. "Hey," he said. His voice was raw and tired. So were his eyes.

"Hey," I said back.

"You, uh… where's Maureen and Collins?"

"Sleeping and at an interview."

Roger nodded. I thought I should have been afraid of him, but strangely, I wasn't. Roger was too pathetic, too weakened and tired and defeated, to hurt me. "Do you believe in G-d?" he asked.

The question caught me off my guard. "What?" He pointed to the gold Star of David that had somehow slipped out from beneath my sweater. "Oh. I… um… yeah. I do." I don't know why that embarrassed me.

Roger nodded again. "I envy you," he said.

"What?" This boy had a way of catching me off my guard with each new phrase out of his mouth.

"I wish I believed in G-d, a g-d, any g-d. Something to… protect us. To make our actions less significant. To be there, all the time, taking care…"

We talked for a long time about that, about G-d, my faith, and Roger never seemed to be mocking me. In fact, he was so exhausted he was nothing but honest, and I returned the favor.

To be continued!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing.

They offered to hire me on the spot. I asked for time. They gave me twenty-four hours to say yes or no.

On the train ride home, all I could think was, how can I leave Roger? We've been together for nearly seventeen years and written when we were apart. I swore I would never leave him-- Roger and I were never lovers or anything more than blood brothers (this was when we were young and neither of us was HIV-positive), but that was enough.

"How did you meet him?" Mark asked me, later that day.

"We were in the same home for a while."

"Home…?"

"Saint Thomas's."

"You mean you and Roger were…?"

I nodded. "Foundlings, yes."

"But," Mark protested, "but Roger has a mother! She calls here all the time!"

Once again, I nodded. "Mrs. Davis. The Davises adopted Roger when he was eight. Before that, he was in the home for about two years."

How could I leave Roger, _now,_ just when he was finishing his physical withdrawal? He was going to have to figure himself out all over again, and I could not leave him to go through that alone.

MIT could suck it; family came first. But I _wanted_ to go to MIT, and really, said a voice in my head, shouldn't I get it?

Then I walked into the loft, and I saw Roger sitting cross-legged on the couch with his head bowed. Mark sat before him, and he was reached over to fasten a necklace around Roger's neck. Roger held that star so tightly that, in his sleep, it punctured his hand.

That was when I knew I could leave. I could leave Roger with Mark.

I never considered Roger a burden-- I liked the kid-- but it was so much easier to breathe knowing someone would look after him for me.

To be continued.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I am just playing with his characters, all respect meant.

To be fair, there is one thing I loved about the Midwest: I loved the twisters. As a child I loved to hold out my arms and spin and spin and spin, kicking up clouds of dust that settled in my hair and my shoes and the folds of my clothes. I loved how, if I risked it, I could see the land with no one around, I could see the lightning and I could feel the calm. And it's dead calm. There's no one around for miles and miles and the wind picks up…

I knew it, even when I was ten years old. I felt the weather inside me and I could not draw breath. I felt my pulse deep down in my secret place. I felt it spill out and smear onto my panties, the first time I wet myself. I was nothing and everything and my head burned to implode and I was so beautiful.

---

I heard the same quiet in the loft last night. Roger was sleeping. He cries in his sleep sometimes. We let him.

Mark and I were asleep, too, but the quiet woke me. I left the bed. Wasn't tired any longer. I came out here and I sat, waiting, because I knew the storm was coming.

---

"Hey." There was a warm hand on my shoulder and a face near mine. "Hey. You're Maureen, right?"

I had no idea who this pixie is, but I liked the way she pronounced my name. "Mar'een." I nodded. "Yeah. How do you…?"

She laughed, her body swayed slightly. She wore a long coat held tight around her body. "You guys aren't exactly quiet. Mind if I sit?"

"No."

I made room for her. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I'm not a smoker, but when she offered I accepted. "So what do you do?" she asked. I told her about my protests. She just kept asking and asking, and she was interested, too, I mean she listened to every word and when I was done she said, "Well that sounds fun." I thought she was being nice until she added, "You should come down to my place some time if you need anything. I'd love to help out."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah," she said, like it was obvious.

Roger woke up first. He came out rubbing his eyes. "Mm," my companion said. "Is he your boyfriend?"

I laughed. "Hardly. He's more like my best friend." I won't pretend I never fantasized about Roger. I did, at first. Five people, one bathroom, so I had seen him naked, and uh… well, G-d may have made Roger's head a little broken, but He certainly compensated.

Already I saw her eyes calculating, but Mark came out then. We briefly discussed him: yes, I'm with him. Um, not great, actually, but he's really sweet.

"You sure about that?" she asked, looking in through the window.

Mark and Roger were "having words". I couldn't hear them, didn't need to. _Where is she?_

_I dunno._

_What do you mean, you don't know?_

_I mean I don't know._

I knew the storm was coming. That day was the first time I saw the fight, though. Before I had only seen the bruises.

Mark swung at Roger, but Roger caught his wrist and told him to stop. Roger was trembling at the effort. He was weak after withdrawal. Mark wrenched his hand free and smacked Roger across the face. He shouted so loudly, I heard every word: "This is your fault, Roger! You started this!" Then he grabbed his coat and stormed out.

"Ouch."

I wiped a tear off my cheek. "Yeah." Some friend I was. Some friend, because I let Mark smack Roger and it was my fault that he did.

"You want to come down to my place? Warm up… calm down…" She offered a hand and pulled me up. Things were so horrible upstairs, I would have gone anywhere. I had gone just about everywhere. I had gone into the beds of strangers to feel a little love and safety.

And yeah, okay, so there was a thrill when I had to climb down their fire escapes to avoid wives and girlfriends.

That day, after I left her apartment I went to the clinic to pick up my test results. **HIV antibodies.** The print is not friendly. It spares no amount of pain, offers no comfort. It offered me a cold, hard fact I already knew. It offered me a negative result to show Mark, to show him that I never fooled around with Roger. I used it to break up with him that day.

I resolved to do it on the bus, riding back, but what sealed my resolve was the faint bruise on Roger's face and the heavier bruise in a perfect circle on the back of his hand.

To be continued.

Please review?


	7. Roger

Now before you flame me, remember that I wrote this entire story in one day for speedrent. It was a 24-hour muse.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

"Roger?"

Mark's voice woke me, accompanied by his hand on my shoulder, shaking a little too hard. I moaned. It couldn't have been more than two a.m. "What is it, Mark?"

At that point, he was the last person I wanted to speak to. My head still pounded, though less harshly now, and the guilt of things I never did curled like hot sick in my stomach. And on top of everything, I was beginning to think thoughts I knew were bad.

I was beginning to think that maybe I wanted to go back to drugs. I wanted to feel good again. Why bother, after all, why bother living when there's nothing? Why live your last few months in fear and pain and loneliness? April left me. Even Collins was gone, though I knew, logically, that he was working but he would be home again soon. It was November already.

And I was beginning to think that maybe April was right. Maybe I should follow. Was this what her life was like, those last few weeks? Did I treat her this way?

April cheated one me, I know she did, because I was monogamous and I wore a condom every time. I didn't want children and I knew that. April got herself positive and gave me the virus. And yet I lived, and I got up every morning, but it was so hard, and I had to face Mark who was half the time caring and half the time…

"She left me, Roger."

"What?"

He sobbed, then he wailed, "S-she, she le-e-eft me. Maureen. She s-said she's b-been se-eeing another puh-person, a la-lawyer…"

I sat up. "I'm sorry, Mark." I knew what he wanted, and my blood ran cold at the thought. Mark believed that Maureen and I made love. He believed she made love to other men because he forgave her after me. Now she was gone, and Mark was hurt, and I had absolutely no question that Mark was going to take that pain out on me.

But I had never apologized. Maybe it would sate him.

"No, dammit!" Mark slammed his fist against his leg. "No! She's negative, Roger. Maureen's negative so she never fucked you."

Maureen and I never made love, but I got the disease from April, from needles, and she started using that night. Even if we had, Maureen and I, she would have been negative.

I did not tell Mark that.

"No, we didn't," I agreed.

Mark sat on the bed then. He began to pet me. "You're a good friend, Roger," he said. "You're a really good friend." _What?_ His fingers ran through my hair. "You were really good to stay with me, Roger. I know I haven't been very good to you lately, but I'll make that up to you. I promise. I'm gonna be nicer to you now."

"Okay, Mark." What else could I say? He was drunk. I could smell the liquor, and Mark always was a lightweight. "Okay, Mark," I said again.

He let loose a couple more bubbling little sobs, and then his hands shifted to my shoulders and he pulled me against him and kissed me hard across the mouth.

I pulled away. "Mark…"

"I just wanna treat you right!" he shouted at me, sobbing. "Let me do something nice for you!"

He was so angry, and that's when I realized… "You don't want me, you want the disease."

"Yes, you moron! Glad you've finally cottoned on! You think I gave a fuck about you, Roger?"

"Mark, you're drunk. You need--"

"I need you. I need your fluids, I don't care, blood, semen, I don't care, just make me sick."

"Mark, no!" He was scaring me now. "Get out of my room, now!"

"You want to. You know it. I've hurt you, Roger. I have. Get even with me for all the bruises."

I wanted to vomit. "I won't listen to this."

I tried lying down with the covers pulled up over my head, but Mark pulled the blanket away and started… it is difficult to find a fitting verb for what Mark did. He was trying to fellate me. He tore at my pants and I kept pushing him back, until eventually I pushed him to the floor and I sat on his chest until he calmed down.

After that I turned on the shower and helped Mark off with his clothes. His desire was gone, and he let me alone. He stood in the shower for a while but he didn't wash. He called my name when he wanted to get out. He was standing there, shivering, unable to get himself out of the shower.

I toweled him dry.

He couldn't or wouldn't dress himself. I helped him. I put him to bed. He asked me not to go yet, so I sang him a song. Mark fell asleep.

The next morning, I was on my second cup of coffee when Mark wandered out clutching his head. "What did I drink last night?" he asked, plopping himself down at the table.

"I'll get you an aspirin."

I brought the pill over for him. He took it with a sip of my coffee. "Thanks, Rog--"

Mark looked at me. I looked back. We both knew what had happened the night before. "It doesn't matter," I mumbled, and we never spoke of it again.

But it did matter. That was when Mark started taking care of me. I no longer needed to ask him to pick up my AZT, if he wouldn't mind, thank you very much Mark. He asked me if I wanted to talk about April (or anything). He sat with me and talked about nothing when I had bad nights instead of leaving me to cry myself to sleep.

He stopped touching me, though, and I missed that.

THE END!


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